The waitress passed a note to the mafia boss — “Your fiancée has set a trap. Leave now.”

Lorenzo crumpled the napkin in his fist and stood up abruptly.

“We’re leaving,”

he said. His voice was ice.

“Now.”

“But I haven’t finished my—”

“Now, Bianca.”

He didn’t wait for her. He signaled his head of security, a giant named Marcus who was standing by the entrance.

Marcus saw the look on Lorenzo’s face—the code-red look—and tapped his earpiece. Lorenzo grabbed Bianca’s tool, not gently.

“Enzo, you’re hurting me,”

she hissed, trying to pull away as he marched her toward the exit.

“You’ll survive,”

he muttered.

The Explosion

They reached the valet stand at 9:11 PM, four minutes early.

“Bring the car!”

Marcus barked at the valet.

“No,”

Lorenzo said, scanning the street, the rooftops, and the parked vans.

“We take the back exit now.”

“The back?”

Bianca’s face went pale.

“Enzo, don’t be ridiculous. The Rolls is right here.”

She tried to stop and reach for her purse to drop it as the signal. Lorenzo saw her hand twitch towards the bag and clamped his hand over hers.

“Keep walking.”

They burst out through the kitchen exit into the alleyway. The staff stared as they passed.

Barber was there, scrubbing a pot. She looked up, her face wet with steam.

Lorenzo locked eyes with her for a split second in a silent nod.

“I heard you.”

He shoved Bianca into the back of his secondary escort SUV, a bulletproof Escalade waiting in the alley.

“Go!”

Lorenzo shouted to his driver.

As the SUV screeched out of the alley and onto the main road, the clock struck 9:15 PM. The sound was earth-shattering.

Lorenzo looked out the rear window. In front of the restaurant where he would have been standing had he waited for the Rolls, a fireball consumed the street.

His Rolls-Royce Phantom was a twisted wreck of burning metal. The shockwave shattered the windows of the Obsidian Room.

Inside the SUV, the silence was deafening. Bianca was trembling, staring at the fire.

She wasn’t acting anymore; she was terrified, not of the explosion, but of the man sitting next to her. Lorenzo slowly turned to face her.

The firelight from the street illuminated the hard plains of his face, making him look like a demon.

“You missed,”

Lorenzo said softly.

Bianca opened her mouth to scream, but Marcus had already drawn his weapon.

“Take her to the warehouse,”

Lorenzo ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Do not let her die. She has a lot to tell us about Dante Russo.”

As the car sped away into the New York night, Lorenzo didn’t look at his sobbing ex-fiancée. He pulled the crumpled napkin from his pocket.

The waitress—she was still back there. Dante Russo’s men were watching the restaurant.

When they realized Lorenzo wasn’t dead and that the trap had been blown, they would look for the leak. Bianca had been in the cellar; someone must have heard her.

“Marcus,”

Lorenzo said, pulling out his phone.

“Boss, turn the car around. Send the B-team to the alley.”

“Why? We have the target.”

“No,”

Lorenzo said, smoothing the napkin with his thumb.

“We left the savior behind. If Bianca knows she was overheard, Dante knows. They’ll kill everyone in that kitchen to find the rat.”

He looked at the smudged handwriting.

“Find the girl,”

Lorenzo commanded.

“Bring her to me alive.”

The Hunt for the Savior

Barber stood frozen in the alleyway, the dishwater soaking into her sleeves. The explosion had knocked the pans off the drying rack.

The screaming from the street was muffled by the brick walls, but the smoke was rising thick and black against the skyline.

“He made it,”

she thought, a wave of relief crashing into her. He took the back exit.

But then the realization hit her like a physical blow. Bianca was with him, and Bianca would know.

Bianca would realize that her plan failed because someone tipped him off, and Bianca knew someone was in the cellar. Barber dropped the scrubbing brush.

She couldn’t go back inside, and she couldn’t go home to Toby. If they found her, they would find her brother, too.

She stripped off her apron, tossing it into the dumpster. She grabbed her coat from the staff locker near the door and ran.

It started to rain, a cold, biting New York drizzle. Barber didn’t have a plan; she just had panic.

She ran down Fifth Avenue, blending into the crowd of shocked onlookers gathering near the smoke. She needed to get to Toby and move him.

She made it to the subway station, her lungs burning, and fumbled for her MetroCard. Suddenly, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

Barber spun around, a scream trapped in her throat. It was a man in a dark trench coat with a hard face and a scar over his eyebrow.

“Barber Vance?”

he asked. It wasn’t a question.

“I—no, you have the wrong person.”

She tried to back away, but another man appeared behind her, blocking the turnstile.

“Mr. Moretti sends his regards,”

the first man said.

Barber’s vision blurred. Moretti—did he think she was part of the trap? Did he want to silence the witness?

“Please,”

she begged, tears mixing with the rain on her face.

“I saved him. I just wrote the note. I don’t know anything else.”

“We know,”

the man said, his grip tightening.

“But Dante Russo’s men are two blocks away, and they aren’t as polite as we are. You’re coming with us.”

“No!”

Barber stomped on the man’s instep and bolted. Adrenaline, sheer and primal, took over.

She ducked under the turnstile arm, sprinting down the stairs toward the platform.

“Secure her! Don’t shoot!”

she heard them yell.

She reached the platform just as a train was pulling in. It was chaos as she shoved her way into a crowded car.

The doors hissed shut just as the men in trench coats reached the yellow line. They slapped the glass, frustration etched on their faces.

Barber collapsed into a plastic seat, hugging her knees. She was safe for now, but she had no money, the mafia was hunting her, and the only man who could help her had just sent goons to abduct her.

She got off two stops later in Queens. She ran the six blocks to the dilapidated apartment building where she lived with Toby.

She burst through the door.

“Barber!”

Toby called out from his wheelchair in the living room.

“You’re home early. Did you see the news? There was a bombing in Manhattan.”

“Pack a bag,”

Barber said breathless, locking the three deadbolts on the door.

“Toby, we have to go now.”

“What? Why? Barber, you’re scaring me.”

“I messed up, Toby. I messed up baddies. We have to leave the city.”

She rushed to the bedroom, throwing clothes into a duffel bag as her hands shook uncontrollably.